


Breakaway

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "After a year of exercising strict self-control, of taking pains never to see Ed as more than a client no matter how much he felt like he could be something much more, Tom gave in. He came home with Ed, to the beautiful flat Tom himself helped Ed buy. In the romantic glow of Manchester's city lights, he kissed Ed, he let Ed kiss him, and he followed Ed into his bedroom. What happened after that was the stuff of every illicit fantasy Tom's had since he first met a rising football star called Ed Little."A continuation of the wonderful lafiametta's "Footballer/Agent AU", as seenhere.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 25
Kudos: 68
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lafiametta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/gifts).



> While my family has strong attachments to Newcastle United, love of sports passed me by. So, while I stayed away from any on-pitch play-by-plays, let me know if anything seems amiss!
> 
> Thanks to lafiametta for letting me play in her AU.
> 
> For the Terror Bingo square James Fairholme (really.)

_"Breakaway: When an attacker with the ball approaches the goal undefended; this exciting play pits a sole attacker against the goalkeeper in a one-on-one."  
-A to Z Glossary of Football and Soccer Terms_

“I can't come out.” 

Tom is still surfacing bleary-eyed from sleep. Ed sounds wide awake. 

_Ed._ Fuzzy-headed as he is, Tom can't contain a smile. After a year of exercising strict self-control, of taking pains never to see Ed as more than a client no matter how much he felt like he could be something much more, Tom gave in. He came home with Ed, to the beautiful flat Tom himself helped Ed buy. In the romantic glow of Manchester's city lights, he kissed Ed, let Ed kiss him, then he followed Ed into his bedroom. What happened after that was the stuff of every illicit fantasy Tom's had since he first met a rising football star called Ed Little. 

He could blame it on the extra pint he had last night. More reasonable would be to blame Ed's rare smile, Ed's kind heart, Ed himself. 

“I'm sorry,” Ed says, and he sounds it. “Do you want a coffee, or something?”

Sun is streaming into Ed's large, tastefully furnished bedroom. Tom knows the furniture intimately; he picked it out himself. Left to his own devices, Ed would be on a mattress on the floor, or on the sagging futon he'd kept much longer than was necessary, or, in Tom's view, hygienic. 

Tom was particularly pleased, he remembers, when he ordered the king-sized Savoir bed. He never expected he'd be sleeping in it himself. Imagined, maybe, but never expected. 

“I'm okay.” Tom sits up. He's naked beneath Ed's thousand thread count sheets. Unless he got up, dressed, then returned, Ed is too. The thought is a pleasant one, but the look of abject misery on Ed's face chases away any thoughts Tom may have about continuing last night's fun. “Are you?” 

Ed sighs. “I'm really sorry.” 

Tom swallows. “About...” He can deal with morning after regrets from a man he just fucked. He's travelled that disappointing road before. But regrets from Ed would be something else, especially if they are to keep working together. Sentiment aside, Tom doesn't fancy losing his top client. His only client, really, since he had to pass off several lesser players to focus on Ed. It can't all come crumbling down because of a momentary aberration in Tom's self-control. 

“No!” Ed says. He reaches out, grabbing hold of Tom's hands. “Not that. That was amazing. Best night of my life, I fucking swear it. You're so, so...” He frowns, those two adorable little lines appearing between his eyebrows. “Sexy. That's not the right word.” The frown deepens. “I couldn't believe my luck when I found out you were my agent, and then...” A blush comes to his cheeks. 

Tom's heart, which had been pre-emptively hardening itself just in case, melts all over again. “Ed.” Ed leans forward and kisses him. He tastes like stale lager and curried chips, and Tom finds he could not care less. 

He does care, though, when Ed pulls away, still looking miserable. “I can't come out. Not after what happened to Fairholme.” 

“Jim Fairholme was ten years ago, and he was nowhere near the player you are.” He was, however, the first Premier League player to come out as gay. Tom has to admit it didn't go particularly well for him. It would be exaggerating to say the media ate him alive, but not by much. 

“I can't be the next.” 

“It's up to you, Ed.” Tom knows him. Ed hates the spotlight he's already under. Something like this would turn a spotlight into a microscope. 

Ed sighs heavily. “Fucking sucks, though, don't it? I'd love everyone to know how lucky I am.” He kisses the back of Tom's hand, an unexpectedly gentlemanly gesture. 

Tom, a little less gentlemanly, pushes Ed back into the pile of down pillows and climbs on top. 

***

"Where the hell have you been all morning?" Francis Crozier snaps, when Tom picks up his phone.

"It's only nine o'clock." Across the breakfast table, Ed, an elite athlete under the care and supervision of one of the finest nutrition experts in the country, sits eating a bowl of Choco Crackles.

Francis ignores Tom. Ever since he got sober, he's been starting work early, normally before seven. Usually, Tom is right there with him. "I need you to go down to Morecambe this afternoon. I've heard there's a couple of players worth taking a look at. Brothers."

"Ed's got a practice this afternoon."

"You don't need to be there for that." Tom doesn't. He wants to be.

"Why don't you send Teddy Genge to Morecambe?"

"He hasn't got your eye."

"It'll be good for him, then. Give him some practice. It's better for me to be with Ed." It's not a lie, Tom tells himself. Chances are, these brothers are run of the mill players, big fish in a small pond. Not like Ed. Not stars.

Francis sighs. "All right, then. Go with Ed. But if bloody Franklin steals these boys out from under our noses, I'm putting the blame on you." 

Tom can live with that.

"You're coming to watch me practice?" Ed asks, once Tom has put the phone down.

"If you want me to." Tom hesitates. "Do you want me to?" He usually has in the past, whenever he could. Are things different now?

"I always want you with me. Even before..." Ed flushes. _It's not fair_ , Tom thinks, _that one man should be so adorable._ "And even more now." 

"Good." Tom can feel his own face heating with pleasure. He hides it in his cup of coffee, as Ed's foot finds his beneath the table. 

***

Like many kids, Tom spent his childhood dreaming of playing professional football. His chances, minuscule at best, were cut short by an accident, but that didn't diminish Tom's love of the game. Seeing it played by someone like Ed, a football virtuoso, is nothing short of transcendent. He likens it to a lifelong wine snob finally getting a taste of the best in the world, or a classical music fan hearing a master musician. It's life affirming. 

Even though it's only a practice, Ed gives it his all. He comes off the pitch sweaty, his jersey damp and his hair plastered to his head. Tom, keenly aware of the dozen other players, not to mention the coach and team manager, in the dressing room, forces his gaze to remain neutral, just like every other day. "There's some media outside," he warns Ed. Ed pulls off the jersey, and Tom pretends to be deeply engrossed in a text from Francis. 

"Can we avoid them?" Ed asks.

"Probably not. Nothing to worry about, though. Just give them the usual.”

“'I'm looking forward to getting onto the pitch on Saturday'.” Ed repeats obediently. The standard reply to any question about football. Personal questions, they pretend not to hear. It gives Ed a reputation as a bit of a dim bulb, which is far from the truth, but it's cruel to try and make him speechify in front of the cameras. And nobody expects Ed to be an orator as well as a star player. 

“I don't know why you get so uptight about it, Ed." Right fullback George "Handsome" Hodgson squirts a stream of water from his bottle into his mouth. “It's easy-fucking-peasy to get those journalists wrapped around your finger. You just got to make yourself relatable. Let them see the man behind the uniform, you know what I mean?” He doesn't pause for reply. “I told one of them about going to my aunts' place as a kid, got a whole piece written up about what a sensitive family man I am.” 

“I'm not a family man." Ed grabs his towel. He glances at Tom when he says it. The look is full of such tenderness that Tom's voice cracks—actually cracks like an adolescent's—when he says, “I'll wait for you outside.”

It's not a particularly important practice, so there are only a handful of reporters waiting when Ed makes his appearance. They clamour when they see him, calling out questions. 

“I'm looking forward to getting onto the pitch on Saturday,” Ed replies. 

“Will your girlfriend be there, Ed?” 

Tom doesn't need to look to know who asked that. Neil Hickey stands at the front of the crowd, holding up his phone. Ed hesitates, which is all a jackal like Hickey needs to persist. “Surely you haven't forgotten her? The lovely Britannia Fitzjames?” 

Tom would have expected the others, respected sports journalists, to laugh a pathetic gossip columnist like Hickey out of the room. Instead, they quieten, apparently interested in the answer. 

“Ed's not a man to kiss and tell,” Tom replies. 

“He can speak for himself, though, can't he, Tom?” Hickey's beady eyes narrow. “Or can he?” 

Ed stiffens, and Tom knows what he has to do. He flicks his gaze to the security guard, raises his eyebrows, and Tozer starts to make his way over. “Thank you all." Tom takes Ed gently by the elbow. “We'll see you at the match.” He strides away, bringing Ed with him. They don't stop until they reach the players secured parking garage. 

Ed loves cars. It's his one extravagance, if you could call it that. He could have a garage full of sports cars and luxury vehicles, if he wanted to. He has only two: a Bentley New Continental and a Range Rover, and he treats them like beloved pets. 

“Feel like a pint?” Tom asks, as he gets into the passenger seat of the Bentley. Francis probably expects him back at the office, but he has no plans to go there. He's got his mobile if there's a crisis. 

“Nah.” Ed cracks his shoulder, then pulls out of the parking space. 

“Is your shoulder bad again? I'll get you a physio appointment.” Tom picks up his phone. _Was it something we did?_ Is something he doesn't ask. “Goodsir can come to your place.” 

“Yeah,” Ed agrees without complaint, proving just how bad it must be. “Then we could get a takeaway? I mean, you and me?” He sounds hopeful, like he's asking for something outlandish. 

“Of course. Thai or Korean?”

“I kind of fancy a pizza. Extra pepperoni. With chips.” 

Tom shakes his head. He should at least try to keep Ed on his diet plan. Should. “I won't tell if you don't.” He smiles into his phone as he texts Harry Goodsir to drop by Ed's flat as soon as he can. 

Because he is a saint in a curly beard and a white polo shirt, Harry comes at once, and brings his colleague Silna, an incredible massage therapist, along with him. Tom sits in the front room, texting back and forth with Francis, while they work their magic on poor Ed in his bedroom. Genge was impressed with the boys in Morecambe, apparently. So impressed, he's bringing them in for a meeting immediately. _Good for Teddy_ , Tom thinks. He hopes it works out for him. 

When Ed, Harry and Silna emerge from the bedroom, Tom puts the phone away.

“How is he doing?”

“I'm not a doctor,” Harry says, as usual. “But you need to go easy on that shoulder, Ed. If you don't take care, you might do yourself some real damage.” 

“I don't need my shoulder to play football, do I?” 

“Ed.” Harry looks at him with those big eyes of his. 

“Yeah. Right. No, I know you're right, Harry. Thanks. Thank you, Silna.” She nods silently. Tom doesn't know much about her, beyond her impressive c.v. and the lengthy list of even more impressive clients she works with, but she makes Ed seem like he never shuts up. 

They go, and Ed turns to Tom. Before Tom can ask where he should put in an order for the pizza, Ed says, “Harry told me I should go for a soak in the Jacuzzi bath.” A smile plays on his lips. It's small, unsure almost, and hits Tom right in the heart. “Want to join me?” 

Tom heads for the bathroom. "Is that a yes?" Ed laughs after him. 

Tom loves Ed's tattoos. He has since the earliest days of their working relationship, when Ed was shirtless or naked around Tom so often, he took to staring at them, rather than Ed's chiselled physique or thickly furred chest, in hopes of hanging on to some shred of professionalism. Now, Tom extends his leg and runs a very unprofessional foot up the detailed rope and anchor on Ed's left arm. 

“You like it?” Ed asks. He catches Tom's foot and kisses his toes, each one in turn. 

“Yeah.” The whirlpool jets thrum steadily, pulsing jets of water against Tom's lower back and thighs. “They're all beautiful.” _You're beautiful_ , he doesn't add, as Ed presses his thumb into the bottom of Tom's foot and rubs. Tom stifles a groan. 

“Ever thought of getting one?” 

“Seems like it would hurt.” Especially the one on the side of Ed's neck. It's secretly Tom's favourite, even though Tom's mother tutted when she saw a picture of her son's new client. “Makes him look like a bleedin' tough, don't it, love?” She said, which is ironic, since Ed is the softest, kindest man he's ever known. 

“You're not afraid of getting hurt, though.” It's a statement, not a question. A simple one, but Ed manages to imbue it with a hint of suggestion that makes Tom feel even hotter. 

“Tattoos are too permanent for me,” Tom admits. 

“You don't do permanent?”

That's not it. Tom sighs. It's not easy to explain, and it's nothing Ed wants to hear, anyway. “It's just complicated,” he says, hoping that ends the discussion. 

It doesn't. Ed hesitates, but just for a moment. Then, he shifts, sitting up and dropping Tom's foot in favour of his hand. “You can tell me shit, Tom.” 

“I know. It's just...”

“I don't want to just be fuck buddies. I mean,” he adds, “if that's what you want, I'll take it, but I want to, you know, be your man.” He licks his lips. “If that's what you want.” 

Tom wants to climb in his lap, to kiss him senseless, to get him off right there in the bath. Taking courage from the expression on Ed's face, and the feeling of Ed's hand in his, he does something much more difficult. 

“My dad left us when I was little,” Tom says. It's not a unique story. Plenty of people could tell the same one, but it's not something he talks about, ever. “Then my younger brother's dad did the same. My mum was on and off drugs for years, and we never lived in the same place for more than a few months at a time.” Even now that he has his job and his flat, it was only very recently he felt secure enough to unpack everything he owns. It was habit to keep a bag ready, just in case he had to leave quickly. “So it's not that I don't do permanent. I'm just not used to having it.” 

“I'll get a tattoo for you,” Ed says. Tom laughs, letting out the tension he hadn't realized was building. “Whatever you like. Anywhere you want.” 

Tom moves over, putting his arms around Ed's neck. “What if I ask for dolphin on your ankle?” He jokes, with a kiss to Ed's cheek. “Or a butterfly on your lower back? Or a pile of Japanese characters that actually mean 'elephant handjob' or something?” 

“Anything,” Ed says. He rolls his eyes, but it feels like he means it. 

The next morning, Tom wakes up to Ed in his arms and the buzzing of his phone in his ear. Keeping one hand on the warm, muscled plane of Ed's stomach, Tom fumbles on the bedside table with his other until he finds it. 

“Hello?”

“Where the fuck are you?” Francis snaps. Tom glances at the time. It's just before eight. “And why,” he goes on, “is Neil fucking Hickey writing about you?” 

“What?” 

“Just get in here.” He hangs up. 

Loath as he is to give the man any attention whatsoever, Tom clicks until he lands on Hickey's famous blog.

Feeling dirty just looking at it, Tom scrolls past tidbits about reality stars he's never heard of and celebrities he barely recognizes. When he sees Ed's name, he stops. _Local Manchester boy Ed Little continues to shine on the pitch, and, rumour has it, on the arm of the gorgeous Britannia Fitzjames, although they have yet to be seen in public together. He is very much seen in the company of his agent Tom Jopson, who's been his constant companion since the season began._ There's a picture beneath it, which Hickey must have taken with his phone after yesterday's practice. Tom and Ed are walking away, Tom's hand on Ed's elbow. 

Tom groans. The gossip about the Brazilian Instagram star Britannia Fitzjames, who Ed met once at a charity party and hasn't talked to since, is fine, harmless even if it is ridiculous. This, especially in the hands of Neil Hickey, has the potential to be much more disruptive. 

“Ed.” Tom kisses his shoulder. He gets a grunt in return. “I have to go to work.” He kisses him again, when Ed turns his face to receive it, and heads for the shower. 

Most of the big agencies are headquartered in London. That's too close to John Franklin for Francis' liking. Crozier and Associates is on the top floor of a tall building on Whitworth Street, in the centre of Manchester. Tom can't say he misses anything in particular about living Down South, even if he still hasn't got used to the sheer amount of rain in this part of the country. 

Arriving at the office, Tom sees two young men are waiting in reception. He smiles at them, shakes off his umbrella, and looks at the man behind the reception desk. 

“Morning, Billy.”

The admin assistant, Billy Gibson, gives him his usual blank look. The job, as the first person visitors meet when they arrive at the office, is not, perhaps, ideally suited to the sullen, sallow Billy. Tom himself held the position before he was promoted. As such, he's always particularly careful about overstepping or judging Billy unnecessarily harshly. Even when Billy, looking half a step above dead, gives a heartfelt sigh and says, as if it pains him to form the words, “Crozier wants to see you.” 

“In his office?”

“Conference room.” Great. It means there may be a whole team ready to tell Tom off. 

There's not. There's just Francis, peering through his glasses at his laptop screen and typing, as usual, with his two index fingers. 

“Good morning, Francis.” Tom affects a casual tone. 

Deliberately, Francis removes his glasses, folds them, and sets them beside the laptop. “I need you in a meeting this morning. We're signing on those boys from Morecambe.” 

“Those are Genge's clients.” 

“And I told you, Teddy hasn't got your experience. You're going to need to lend him a hand.”

Tom forces a smile. He likes Francis, and he respects him as an agent and as a boss. They've been through a lot together. But the last thing he needs at the moment is to play nursemaid to Teddy Genge. “I'm not sure I have the time to...”

“Little's a good man, Tom,” Francis interrupts. “Great player. But you know better than to put all your eggs in one basket.” 

“Right.” He does. He waits for the other shoe to drop, for Francis to pull the trigger and directly ask if Tom is sleeping with his client. Instead, he gives one of his rare, benevolent smiles. 

“The kids are outside. See that they get settled, will you?” 

Taking that as dismissal, Tom goes to leave. He's nearly at the conference room door when Francis adds, “Don't lose your head. You're too sensible for that.” It's true. “Sensible” is Tom's defining characteristic. It's how he's come so far in life, given where he began. 

“Yes, sir,” Tom answers, and goes out to meet Genge's new players.

They're brothers, as Francis said. John and Tom Hartnell. Tom, the younger one, has the familiar, excited look of a man barely out of adolescence who's finally having his dreams come true. John seems a little more skeptical, a lot more questioning. Tom's seen that a thousand times, too. He can't blame him for it. Crozier's is one of the good ones—of course it is—but there are plenty of shady “agencies” out there. John is wise to be wary. 

The meeting proceeds as normal, with Genge leading the conversation, assuaging John's fears with Tom's support, until their solicitor, John Irving, comes in with the contracts. 

Irving is quite possibly the most boring man Tom has ever encountered, in the sports world or out of it. He will discuss his watercolour hobby ad nauseum with anyone in hearing range. He's religious, which Tom doesn't mind _per se_ , but John talks about it constantly, offering to pray for anybody facing anything from a broken fingernail to a career-making deal. And he dresses like he's going to a funeral, possibly his own, every single day. 

Which is why Tom is particularly surprised when one of the new boys, the younger Hartnell, lights up like Christmas when John comes into the room. “John!” John turns pink, then red, his mouth hanging open like a horrified fish. “I didn't know you worked here,” Hartnell goes on, grinning. 

“No. Ah, no. I...” 

“Do you know each other?” Tom asks, although it's obvious they do. That could throw a wrench into the legal works of all this. They'll have to get Crozier involved. 

“Yes,” Hartnell says, at the same time John says, “No. Ah, I mean...Excuse me.” He flees with his contracts, leaving Hartnell staring after him. Tom's instinct is to go after Irving, to see what the hell is going on, but he restrains himself. These aren't his clients. Instead, he stares meaningfully at Genge.

Genge takes the hint. “I'll be right back.”

Tom Hartnell looks confused, while the expression on his brother's face is decidedly more surprised. “What the fuck...” The elder Hartnell begins.

“I'll leave you two alone for a moment,” Tom says, because discretion is the better part of agentship. He closes the door to the office behind him, and takes the opportunity to glance at his phone. 

There are two new texts from Ed. _Hope your day is going OK._ Then, some time later, _Can you get a couple of days off?_

_When?_ Tom texts back. 

The reply comes at once. _After the match on Saturday. I talked them into giving me three days._ A pause, then, _Do you want to go away?_

He shouldn't. He should stay, help Genge get these contracts signed. Spend the time on the few other clients he has, time he should have been spending on them all along. Ed sends him a heart emoji. 

_Yes_ , Tom types. _I do._


	2. Chapter 2

Ed has a reputation as the kind of guy whose actions speak louder than his words. There is one place, however, where Tom has found him to be equally expressive with both. 

“Jesus Christ, fuck, Tom.” Ed groans, his head tipped back on the hotel pillows. From Tom's position straddling Ed's hips, he has an excellent view of the sweat glistening on Ed's forehead, on his throat, on the three-masted ship tattooed across his chest. 

Ed squirms, moving even deeper inside. It's too much. With a wordless sigh of his own, Tom comes, copiously and ecstatically, over his hand and Ed's and the ship. Moments later, Ed follows him over the edge, then immediately pulls Tom down to lie on top of him, kissing him deeply while they catch their breath. 

Tom presumed they'd go to London, or maybe Paris, for their break. Ed had a better idea.

“Wow.” Tom kept repeating it, like an idiot, but all other words seemed to have disappeared from his mind. Ed smiled at him as, overhead, iridescent green light shimmered in the night sky. 

Ed had seen it before, but the aurora—like Finland itself—was all new to Tom. Incredibly, indescribably new. He couldn't take his eyes off it; it was so awe-inspiring, Tom could hardly believe it was natural. It felt like a show, a spectacle. Like something put on especially for them. 

“We're lucky to see it so early in the season,” Ed said, in a knowledgeable tone Tom had never heard from him. Not that he wasn't intelligent. Tom had always known he was, but this was the first time Tom heard him talk so excitedly about something other than football. 

“My grandmother lived in Oulu as a child,” Ed told him, when he proposed the trip. “The North has always been fascinating to me. If it wasn't for football, I might have moved there.”

Tom hadn't quite known what to make of that. “Well, thank God for football, then,” was what he'd said, because he didn't want to imagine a life without Ed. 

Standing beneath the otherworldly lights, Ed cuddled in, putting his arms around Tom and kissing his neck. They weren't alone. A couple of dozen people were on their tour bus from the little city of Oulu out here into the vast empty nothing, but they were spread out, and everybody's eyes were on the skies. Nobody was watching, Tom was certain, when Ed reached into the pocket of his coat, then pressed something into the palm of Tom's hand. 

He could feel what it was. Still, he tore his gaze away from the aurora to confirm it. 

“Ed.” 

“I know it's fast.” Ed's dark eyes reflected the glimmering lights overhead. “But we've known one another for a year, even if this bit is new. It doesn't feel too fast to me. We can wait if you want to. I don't want to put any pressure on you to...”

Tom stopped him with his mouth, kissing him in a way he never would if they were in public at home. If they were in public anywhere but here at the end of the world. When he pulled away, there was a look of love in Ed's eyes that touched Tom's heart even more than the beauty of the skies. He blinked fast, to keep his vision from blurring any more, and slid Ed's ring onto his left hand.

Now, back in their hotel bed, Tom lets himself admire it fully, holding his hand up in front of him. It's simple and elegant, platinum with a narrow band of black onyx around the middle.

“It's just what I would have chosen,” he says, as Ed comes back from the bathroom. He slides beneath the sheets, his weight dipping the mattress next to Tom. Gentle fingers stroke Tom's thigh, over the narrow scar that's all that remains to remind him of the run-in between a car and his bicycle when he was fourteen years old. _My free tattoo_ , he'd called it, and made Ed laugh. 

“I know you,” Ed replies. “It might not seem like it, since you do every single thing for me and I do fuck all for you, but I do.” 

“You do plenty for me, sweetheart.” Case in point. Tom rests his head on Ed's chest. Ed turned off the lights on his way back, and, exhausted and happy, Tom could easily fall asleep. He's almost there, teetering on the brink, when Ed says:

“He was always my favourite. Jimmy Fairholme. I had his poster above my bed.” He snorts. “I guess that tells you something.” Tom turns, kissing Ed's three-masted ship, then doing the same to his rope and anchor. “I heard he moved to Canada.” 

“Would you like me to try and get in touch with him?” Fairholme was one of John Franklin's clients, if Tom remembers correctly. They might have a number, an email address, something. 

“No, no. I'm just being stupid. Go to sleep. I want to take you to a reindeer farm tomorrow.” 

“That's something no man has ever said to me before.” 

Ed laughs, shaking Tom with it. Tom pulls him closer, pressing tightly into Ed's side, and shuts his eyes.

***

“Peglar is moving to Durham," is how Francis greets Tom when he arrives back at work, still floating on the high of three uninterrupted, unsurpassably romantic days with Ed. 

“Why?”

“Husband's got a job at the university library.”

“Ah. Good for him.” Tom is happy for them. Harry Peglar and his husband John are genuinely nice people, and Tom meets few enough of those. “Bad for us, though. We'll need to put out a post for a new IT leader.” “Leader” meaning “team”, since Peglar did it all. 

“I'll get Billy to do up an ad.” 

“I don't mind doing it myself.” Tom doesn't want to see what Billy's idea of a job posting looks like. _Or maybe_ , he thinks, _I do._

“If you can spare the time.” Francis looks at him inscrutably. 

Tom and Ed are keeping the engagement secret, of course. Unless he's at home, Tom's ring is in his pocket. Tom doesn't mind that, he he truly doesn't. Still, under Francis' stare, he feels uncomfortably exposed, as if everything is written across his face. 

“Did you know,” Francis says, at last, “that Irving's been using the grinder?” 

It takes Tom a moment to understand. “Grindr? Why would I know that?” Francis raises an eyebrow. A wave of heat rushes to Tom's cheeks. “I haven't been on there in a long time.” It's true. He stopped when he began spending all his time with Ed. “Is that what this thing with the Hartnell kid is about?” 

Francis sighs. “As far as I can understand, from what John attempted to tell me.” Tom wishes he'd been there for that conversation. “And apparently, they want to keep seeing one another. So I got Collins to do up the contract instead.” 

“What about Hartnell's career?” 

“I told him we'll support him either way. If he wants to be open, or if he wants to keep it quiet. If you ask me, the kid's ready to scream it into every microphone they put in front of him.” 

“And you think that's a good idea?” Tom tries to sound breezy, unconcerned, as if this question is purely a matter of professional interest. 

“It's not the Jim Fairholme era anymore,” Francis replies. “And I'll deny it if you try to quote me, but sometimes, football's not everything.” His eyes meet Tom's. “How's your mother?”

Just in time, Tom remembers the lie he told to get away. A stupid one, but believable. Francis knows his mother. They have the common experiences of addiction and rehab to bind them. It's low to use her as an excuse, even though Tom only said she had the flu, but he knew Francis wouldn't argue about it. 

“She's fine,” Tom replies. “Thanks.” 

“Good. I was worried about her.”

“Thanks,” Tom repeats. He knows he's blushing fiercely now. He hopes Francis puts it down to the thing about Grindr. 

***

A week passes. Tom watches Ed practice and play, arranges his physio appointments, eats takeaway on his sofa and sleeps in his bed. 

“That ring looks really good on you,” Ed says out of nowhere, early one morning as they lie together in the bedroom that has become _theirs_. He kisses it, then does the same to Tom's wrist. “I wish you could leave it on all the time.” 

“People will ask questions.” Tom could lie, but while keeping quiet is one thing, inventing a fictional fiancé is another. And why would anyone believe the story, anyway? Tom spends all of his time with Ed. When would he have time to date anybody else? 

Ed sighs heavily. Tom takes the opportunity to wind his arms around Ed's neck and bring him in for a proper good morning kiss. 

When he arrives at the office, Tom hears him before he sees him. An unmistakable laugh, as nasty as it is irritating. Sure enough, Neil Hickey is leaning against Billy's desk, smirking. Billy looks as animated as Tom has ever seen him. There's even a smile on his lips. 

A smile which dies when he looks up and sees Tom. “There he is now.”

Hickey glances over his shoulder. “Great. Thanks, mate. I'll be sure to give you a ring sometime.” He throws Billy a wink. 

“What do you want?” Tom asks. 

Hickey quirks his eyebrows, but the smirk goes nowhere. “That's not a very nice tone to take, Tom. You and me need to have a chat.” 

“We have nothing to chat about.” Do they? Tom's mind races, even as he keeps his face carefully impassive.

“See, that's where I think you're wrong. But I'll let you be the judge.” 

He has a photo. Hickey shows it to Tom in the conference room, handing over his phone to let Tom see more closely. 

“A loyal contributor of mine took it in the executive lounge at the airport,” Hickey explains. 

It's the two of them, all right. Tom and Ed. Tom doesn't remember the moment in particular, but it seems like Ed is leaning in to show him something on his phone. One of Ed's arms is resting on the back of Tom's chair, and their heads are very close together. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed by this?” Tom wouldn't call it scandalous. It's not as if it's a picture of them kissing, thank God.

Hickey shrugs. “Not particularly. But I looked into why you were there. What business could Ed Little possibly have in Finland, I wondered?” He doesn't pause for a reply, instead holding up a hand. “I'll save you the trouble of lying. The two of you went for a dirty weekend, didn't you?” Again, no pause. “How sweet. I'm sure my readers will be thrilled to hear all about it.” 

Tom breathes deeply, refusing to allow any of his tumbling emotions to show on his face. _It's just like contract negotiations_ , he tells himself. _No emotions, nothing personal._ Even though this is as personal as it gets. “What do you want?”

“In exchange for keeping your secret? Nothing, really.” Hickey's smirk turns into a grin, feral and animalistic. “Just exclusive pictures of Ed with Britannia Fitzjames.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Because that's what my readers want.” He reaches out to rest a hand on Tom's arm. Tom pulls back. “Look, I'm not a fucking monster, okay? I don't want to have to out you guys. I know what that's like.” For a moment, Tom thinks he sees true emotion on Hickey's face. It's fleeting. “But I need to keep my readers happy. One way or another.” 

“So it's blackmail.” 

“It's a tough world out there. Given where you're from, I know you can appreciate that. Actually, I think you and I have a lot in common, Tom.” 

Tom is not a man who uses profanity lightly. He made a conscious choice, years ago, to be the picture of professionalism at all times, and swearing is not part of that picture. This, however, seems an appropriate moment to say, “Fuck off.” 

Hickey laughs. “Let me know when I can expect my pictures. But don't take too long, okay?” He smiles without showing his teeth. Somehow, that seems more threatening. “Don't worry,” he adds, as he saunters away, “I can find my own way out.”

As soon as he's gone, Tom takes out his phone. He should text Ed. He's in a physio appointment with Goodsir at the moment, but this really can't wait. Instead, Tom puts back the phone and takes his ring from his pocket. 

Francis is in his office, pecking away at his keyboard. He looks up when Tom comes in. 

_This is Francis_ , Tom reminds himself. The closest thing to a father he's ever had. Tom swallows, wets his lips, and admits, “I've made a big mistake.” 

Francis sighs, but his expression is kind. “Let's go for a coffee,” he says, and closes his laptop. 

The coffee shop downstairs is busy enough that Tom doesn't worry about eavesdroppers. He gets Francis his usual—regular coffee, no milk, enough sugar to choke a horse—and treats himself to a latte. The barista, who looks all of eighteen years old, draws a heart in the foam and smiles at Tom in a way that would normally make Tom blush. This time, Tom says a cursory, “Thanks,” and goes over to the table. 

“How's your mother?” Francis asks, taking his coffee from Tom. “Over her bout of flu, I hope?” 

Tom winces, but if he's coming clean, then he's coming clean. “I'm sorry. I lied about that.”

“I know. She posted a picture of herself on Facebook while you were away. She was at a party in Chelmsford. I 'liked' it.” 

“Oh.” Tom feels a twist of shame deep in his stomach. Telling a lie is one thing; telling a stupid lie is even worse. 

Francis looks at Tom's hand on his coffee cup. “Nice ring, by the way. Should I read any particular meaning into it?” 

“Ed and I are together.” Saying it aloud brings an immense, and rather unexpected, wave of relief. “Engaged,” Tom adds, and braces himself for the storm. 

It doesn't come. “All right,” Francis replies. Tom waits for him to continue. He doesn't. Instead, Francis takes a sip of coffee, slow and measured, and places the cup on the table beside him. 

“You're not angry?”

“It's not the most professional thing you've ever done, I admit. But I know you, Tom. I know you wouldn't take something like this lightly.” Tom wouldn't. He doesn't. “You can't continue to represent him, you know that.” 

“I...” Francis is right. “I know.” 

“Are you going to come out?” 

Tom can't remember the last time he cried in public. When he was hit by the car, probably. By the time he's finished telling the story of Hickey and his demands, his eyes are stinging. He wipes at them with the back of his hand. Francis hands him a paper napkin. 

“Who is this Britannia Fitzjames, anyway?” he asks. 

Tom shows him her Instagram, then sits, as Francis scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls. “Ah. Yes.” He says finally, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Well. Yes. She is, ah, certainly, a very...a very attractive woman, isn't she?”

“It would be good for her to be seen with Ed.” Tom tries to thinks rationally, like an agent. “She would probably agree to it.” 

“Let me contact her,” Francis replies, suspiciously quickly. “It might be better, coming from the head of the agency.” Tom doesn't argue. It's not like he's particularly keen to do the job himself. “It'll be all right, Tom,” Francis says. “We'll make sure of it.” 

“I'm sorry, Francis.” Not for being with Ed. That, it's impossible to feel sorry for. But he is sorry that caused Francis problems. After all Francis has done for him, problems are the last thing Tom should be offering him in return. 

Francis shakes his head. “If you love one another, don't be sorry. But I will have to have the two of you over to the house soon. I have a few words for Mr. Little.” 

“I'll let him know.” Tom promises. That, he's sure, will be a very interesting conversation indeed. 

When he gets home that evening, Ed is standing in the gleaming stainless steel kitchen and stirring something in a pot on the stove. 

“I thought I'd cook tonight,” he says. He puts an arm around Tom's shoulders and kisses his cheek. “I can't make any promises, but I can usually turn out a decent spaghetti bolognese.” 

Tom wraps his arm around Ed's waist. “How was physio?”

“My shoulder's doing okay.” 

“That's good.” Tom holds on for a long moment, watching Ed stir. Finally, he lets go of Ed and says, “We need to talk.” 

Ed's reply, when it comes, is quick and decisive. Tom's barely finished explaining the situation before he says, “No.” 

Tom blinks. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no, Tom. I'm not taking fake photos with Britannia Fitzjames. I don't even know her.” 

“If we don't get the pictures, Ed, then...”

“Then Hickey will post some suggestive shit about you and me.” 

“It's not just 'suggestive shit.' A lot of people will believe it.” That's Hickey's talent, if you can call it that. It's why his blog is as popular as it is. Even without concrete proof, which he doesn't have, he'll be able to whip up a wave of suspicion, a tsunami even, and Ed will get soaked in the process. 

“So?”

“Ed, I don't think you're understanding this. It's your whole life we're talking about.” Football isn't everything, Francis had said, but it's a hell of a lot to Ed. 

“I'm not a fucking idiot, Tom. Of course I understand.”

“Then why...”

“Let me show you something.” Ed steps back from the stove and pulls off his T-shirt. On the left side of his chest, next to the three-masted ship, is a bandage. 

“What's that?” Tom frowns. “Are you hurt?” 

“I skipped physio today.” 

“What?”

“I'm not supposed to do this until later.” He peels away the bandage. Beneath, the skin is red, and marked with a single word in large, black script. 

_Thomas._

“I know it's not quite 'elephant handjob',” Ed says. He shifts awkwardly in place. “But...permanent, yeah?” 

Tom blinks. “Yeah.”

“So that's that.” Ed replaces his bandage but leaves off the shirt. Tom has no complaints there. “I'm not lying about you. Let Hickey do whatever he wants.” The stubbornness in Ed's voice is reckless. Dangerous. Tom has never loved him more. 

He's made a career out of talking, but Tom can't think of anything to say. Instead, he kisses Ed's cheek, then his lips. For a moment, he's just Tom, then the agent in him kicks back in. Tom's also made a career out of managing images, and the best way to do that is stay in control of the narrative. “We could beat him to it.” 

“You mean...” 

“Take the wind out of his sails. So to speak. Steal his novelty factor.” Old news is no news, after all. 

“Okay,” Ed says, easily, as if this isn't one of the most potentially career-altering decisions he's ever made. “But I should probably call my parents first.” 

Tom does that, too. His mother is thrilled. 

“Oh, you have to bring him down here, love! We'll go for a meal at Nando's. The good one, not the shitty one. I'll get my hair done and everything.”

“It's a bit of a stressful time right now, Mum, I don't know if...”

“Then we'll have a quiet night in. I have to meet him, Tommy, if he's stealing my best boy away.” 

Even after all these years, Tom feels a hint of satisfied sibling rivalry. “Don't tell Bobby you called me that.” 

“Oh, Bobby knows, darling.” She pauses. “Tell me one thing, Tom.” 

“What?”

“He treats you right, this man of yours?” 

Tom feels his cheeks heat. This was something they'd never talked about: her men, Tom's father and Bobby's and most of the rest, hadn't "treated her right" at all. The idea of Ed hurting him in any way is laughable, but Tom doesn't laugh. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Then I'm happy for you, my love. That's what you've always deserved.” 

Tom hears a sob on the other end of the line. “Don't cry, Mum.” 

“I'm not crying. It's Bobby's bleeding marijuana smoke filling up this place again. Bobby!” She yells. “I told you to take that outside! And our Tommy's marrying a football star.” 

Ed emerges from the bedroom, frowning. 

“I have to go, Mum.”

“I love you, darling! And pass on my love to your Ed, will you?”

“Bye!” Tom puts down the phone before he gets roped into further discussion. “What's wrong?” He asks Ed. 

“Nothing.” That doesn't look like it's true. 

“Ed.” Tom remembers the difficult conversation they had in the bath, a day after they first slept together. “You can tell me shit.” 

The frown eases as Ed sits beside him. “It will be fine. They were surprised. I probably should have said something a little sooner.”

“About us?”

“About me. But it's okay. They're okay. They want to meet you.” 

“My mum wants to see you, too. And so does Francis,” Tom recalls. “He's got a lot to say to you, apparently.”

Ed holds up his phone. “Let's get this over with first, yeah?” 

Tom's professional instincts tell him to keep it light, so that's what they do. He's the one behind Ed's one-point-three million follower Instagram account anyway, so he's the one who writes the post. They pose for a decorous, smiling selfie, and Tom captions it: “Thrilled to announce my engagement to the amazing Tom Jopson.” Simple. Matter-of-fact. Easy. Right?

“Amazing?” Ed asks. 

“You would say what?”

“Hot. Brilliant. Great in bed.” Ed smiles, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. Tom can't blame him.

“Let's stick with amazing for now.” He takes Ed's hand. “If you're not sure, we can hold off.” Tom could try and think of some other way out of this. Hire someone to dredge up Hickey's past, maybe. There's probably a lot of it.

“No.” Ed shakes his head. “If anything, I was thinking I should thank Hickey.” 

“Thank him?”

“He's forcing me to be brave. That's what I want to be. Brave. For you.” 

“You're perfect for me, Ed.” Any way. Always. 

“Let me do it.” 

Tom passes over the phone. One hand still in Tom's, he posts the picture, then turns off the phone. 

It's a good idea. Tom does the same to his, before it starts ringing like mad. “Let's go to bed.” Tom's suggestion is met with a grin that goes straight to Tom's heart, and then somewhere else. 

“After you,” Ed says, but before Tom can go anywhere, Ed pulls him back into a long kiss. 

Later, when Ed is sleeping beside him, Tom can't resist. Shielding the light of the phone, he steels himself and brings up Ed's Instagram page. The post has eighty thousand likes, and four hundred comments. There's the expected shit, but the majority are variations on “Congratulations!” and “So happy for you”, with a smattering of rainbow flag icons. 

Tom flicks over to his email account. Already, a dozen interview requests are waiting. They'll have to do one of them. BBC Breakfast, maybe. Ed likes Sophie Minchin. It'll be Tom's last act as his official agent, and his first as Ed's official partner. 

Tom is about to close the app when one email in particular catches his eye. He doesn't know how Jim Fairholme got his email address. Probably through Franklin. 

The message is brief. _Congratulations to the both of you and best wishes for the future. Jim._

Tom replies to that one. 

_Thanks_ , he writes. _For everything._ He returns the phone to the bedside table and slides in, his arm over Ed's waist and his head on Ed's shoulder, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
